Page 72 of In Frame
“What? Why not?”
“Because, as much as I want to tie you to this bed and getthis—” Sam rocked their hips together, making his semi-hard cock rub against Leo’s spent and sensitive dick, making the point; Leo moaned, unabashed about it. “—inside me, you look exhausted and I think you should rest. I can take care of you.”
“But Ilikesex with you.”
“Leo…”
“And you’ve just said—we’ve just said—we can’t profess mutual devotion andnothave sex!”
“I adore you,” Sam said, very earnestly, body cozily pinning Leo’s down, “and wedidjust have incredible sex, and we’re not going to rush anything, got it? You said it, I said it, it’s perfect, and we’re good. I just want to hold you for a minute, all right?”
“Oh. I suppose…I might like that.”
“Come here.” Sam rolled to his side, gathered Leo close, tucked him into a tangle of arms and legs and sheets. “Try to get some rest, okay? For me.”
“Won’t you be bored? You haven’t just got off a plane.”
“No,” Sam said. “No, I won’t be bored.” One hand got back to stroking Leo’s hair, fingers slipping through strands. Leo’s hair loved the feeling.
He shut his eyes. He let himself bask in the sensation of Sam’s body against his, Sam’s chest and shoulder supportinghim, the warmth of smooth skin against his cheek. He wasn’t sure he could sleep, whole body humming in a wrung-dry fading-firecracker way, not wanting to miss a moment.
But he was awfully tired, and the strength was so nice to lean on. Sam was a fraction shorter than he was, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter right now, as one of Sam’s legs draped over him and cuddled him closer.
He let his breathing slow, and let the world dwindle: airports and autographs and weariness gave way to the simplicity of the moment. Himself, here, being held. Sunshine and a bed. And a snow globe on a side table.
* * * *
Sam, holding on, felt the gradual settling of Leo’s body, saw Leo’s face relax, watched the man he loved settle into sleep; and breathed out, himself.
Leo looked so tired. Happy, or at least Sam thought so—Leo wore emotion so brightly, so transparently, except for the hidden exceptions—and thoroughly satisfied. But undeniably weary, with smudges under closed eyes.
Leo had met him joy for joy, and had said nothing about a lack of sleep on the flight over until asked. He wouldn’t’ve, Sam concluded. And apparently Leo never could sleep on planes, which, given the acting life, likely meant a lot of tiredness.
He wanted to know small pieces like that. He wanted to help, if he could. Maybe he could come along. Maybe Leo could sleep better with someone he trusted right there next to him. Maybe Sam could bring a pillow, or be a pillow, or do whatever would banish those dark circles. He did not like those circles. He wanted them gone.
They’d said so much, and also not enough. Sam rubbed a thumb along Leo’s shoulder blade, slow and comforting.Leo didn’t even make a noise, but nestled closer to him, heartbreakingly sweet.
He wondered whether Leo’d encountered any paparazzi, autograph hunters, fans, upon arrival. He’d be surprised if not; Leo probably had security, but Sam knew his own profession. He knew about persistence and obnoxious camera-flashes and celebrity stake-outs and tip-offs about flight numbers. And Leo was decently famous, especially these days, with all the drama surroundingSteadfast. Jason and Colby might be the stars, but Leo was up there as far as cast billing and could usually be counted on for some sort of tantalizing rumor or gossip or at least good fun.
Leo Whyte had never been shy about posing for cameras. Waving sex-shop toys, one time. Offering to dance with a paparazzo down the street outside a ballroom-lessons studio, on another occasion. Once he’d bought all of them ice cream.
Leo liked being unpredictable, he knew. And a sharpness skittered around his heart for just a second: Leo enjoyed surprises, whimsy, flirtations, all light and weightless…
But that wasn’t Leo, or not all of Leo.
The Leo Whyte most peopledidn’tknow was the Leo who couldn’t sleep on even a long international flight, who worried about asking too much or anything at all of his friends, who gave his heart so honestly and readily that the gift was easy to overlook. The Leo who’d fallen asleep curled up in Sam’s arms, mouth a little open, trusting him.
I love you, he thought. I love you so damn much, Leo Whyte. And the thought hurt, but it was a crystalline luminous hurt: clear and poignant as a sword-point last defense, every protection he had left to give, himself standing between Leo’s generosity and the bruises of the world.
He knew Leo had no good reason to feel the same. No reason that made any sense, not in any fairy tale. But Leo hadsaid it too. Those emotions. How right they were, together.
He let his head rest against Leo’s. He let himself imagine: that fairy tale, if it could be one. A future, a home, two homes, in Las Vegas and in London, as long as he was dreaming. Enough money for that; enough money to never worry about money, not ever again. Himself at Leo’s side for red-carpet premieres. Leo meeting his family, Thea and Diana and Carlos. Himself meeting Leo’s parents, getting their approval, being told they thought he was good enough for their son. Himself holding Leo’s hand in public.
His pictures of Colby and Jason—and of Leo, maybe—gaining some attention. An exhibition. An opening in a gallery.
A world in which Sam Hernandez-Blake had some small name as a photographer, someone who could capture and distill even a fraction of the luscious vibrant life that spun all around them.
Leo had asked him once what his favorite subjects were. People, he’d answered. Stories. Everything about them.
